


Tactile

by justanotherStonyfan



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:14:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You see what they want you to see. What they see is each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tactile

You wouldn't know it to look at either of them. 

One is a distant, arrogant child of a man whose greatest pastime is pure hedonism, the other a distant, stoic soldier who doesn't indulge in pastimes aside from the delicate laying down of graphite lines to make up a memory or two.

From the way they hold themselves to the way they speak, the way they represent themselves to others to the way others see them in return, they are two people who have no time for unwanted closeness, for intimacy that would be a waste of time and resources, for love, or romance, or interest in either one. And certainly not with each other.

At least, that's what it looks like.

That's not how it is, though. 

For all Tony's smiles and one-liners, for all his throwing dice and dealing cards, for every glass in hand, he's telling lies. 

Tony Stark doesn't smile an awful lot, not when he means it. Smiles are meant for cameras, not for the times when he's truly happy. When he's in front of cameras, or shareholders, or anyone else who counts among the type of person who wants Tony Stark the Billionaire instead of just Tony, he puts on his sunglasses, shows his white teeth, blows kisses and throws up a peace sign or two before strutting back to his very expensive car to be driven back to his very expensive home. But when he's alone, with the one person who really counts, there are no sunglasses or white teeth, there are no blown kisses or peace signs. 

The one-liners are a little more difficult to escape, because they're so much a part of him. One-liners get him out of trouble, get the audience on-side, endear him to the public even as they're showcasing his biting wit and, sometimes, his charisma. One-liners are his chance to show everybody he's smarter, faster, he's got a silver tongue and a kick-ass sense of style. He won't just put a man down, he'll make it so the guy wants to stay there and cover his head with his hands – Tony Stark can humiliate a man with a look if he chooses to do it, because he's just that good. But he's different when he doesn't have to bite back to show he can, when he's tired but happy to be home. 

He used to gamble an awful lot more than he does now – and that's more of a time constraint. He doesn't have as much time as he did to suddenly decide to go to Vegas, to try his luck at craps or poker or anything else he pleases. It doesn't usually matter – if it's a matter of odds, Tony's brain calculates everything he needs in a matter of seconds. If it's about luck...well, he's got enough money that he doesn't care. And even though he used to adore standing at a table, surrounded by beautiful, shallow people who came running like moths to a flame to watch him flaunt his wealth, he doesn't now. He liked the idea once of people who didn't have to get to know him to applaud him all night long, people who liked him despite his faults. But that thought didn't last, it couldn't last. Not when the cards fell away and the dice rattled to a standstill because somebody showed him how wrong he'd been, because somebody showed him what it really was to be loved despite his faults.

And the glasses in his hand, well...it used to be that he'd hold a bottle instead given half a chance. But now, he doesn't do that. He doesn't want to lose himself that way, not when there's a much better way, a longer lasting way, a way that does no damage whatsoever, a way that's a bigger rush than alcohol ever was. He still holds the glasses in his hand. But if they're full iced-tea or water, instead of scotch or vodka, then who has to know?

Steve was just as bad in his own way before, although his life had been different. Because he's better at standing with his spine straight and his shoulders squared, better at barking orders and taking long strides to stay in front, Steve is a soldier first whenever people see him, and a gentleman second because he was raised that way, holding doors and carrying bags and minding his pleases and thank yous. But that's not the real Steve, and he didn't even realize it himself for the longest time.

Standing with his spine straight and his shoulders squared makes him look every inch the symbol he's meant to. A figure of authority and someone to look towards in a fight, Steve does very well standing head and shoulders above everyone else, because he stands for hope. If you can see the flash of blue and the stencilled wings in the middle of a fight, then you know you're going to be fine. The broad shoulders and narrow hips aren't for show even though more than a few have found such attributes attractive – no, they show the power and strength behind any blows he can land, speed and accuracy in any action he chooses to take. So when the urge to stand to attention passes, the overwhelming urge to do nothing like it takes over.

Steve's voice carries, and it's not because of the serum. It's because he knows that lives rely on his orders being followed, that men will fall if they panic, people will die if he isn't heard. And if you can hear Steve's voice, you're halfway to seeing him – if the dust hasn't settled enough to let you see, you can rest assured he's still standing tall with his shield as long as you can hear him, as long as the order to stand fast or get down can be heard. 

He stands in front of everybody else because it used to be that he was the strongest person, that he was the only refuge to hide behind. And even if there are stronger men, or stronger creatures, now, it doesn't change that Captain America is first into battle. He's an icon, a picture, an image that's decades old and forever young, and he'll stand shining in red, white and blue to face down an enemy because that's what he does, that's who he is. He's the man who stands above all others to defend the defenceless, to hold his shield up to those who would harm the innocent and laugh in the face of danger. And when the day's fight is done, the will is still there, the power, the belief, but the need to display it has faded, and there are times he is grateful for that.

There are those, most in fact, who see him and smile because he's handsome, who nod their thanks when he holds the door, when he pulls out a chair, when he gives up a seat. But there are those who know him. The children, most surprisingly, are the ones who can tell, who whisper “Captain America!” to their mothers when he passes, who approach him with bashful smiles and hesitant steps and call him “Captain Rogers” as they ask for a photograph, an autograph. And the respect he has from those children is something he cherishes. But there are those who know his face for different reasons, those whose hands he holds because they shake, because they're cold and frail, the skin thin against old bones, those who smile and call him “Captain Rogers” because they remember him, because they saw him, those younger by birth but older in time. To them, Steve Rogers is Captain America, the man they waited weeks to see in their home towns, and The Star Spangled Man With A Plan was committed to memory as soon as he graced the stage. He buys them coffee, brings their groceries, helps them up the stairs and across the roads and onto buses and into taxis and, one by one, their numbers grow smaller. 

So this distant, arrogant child and the distant, stoic soldier turn out to be wise beyond their many years, moral and loyal, compassionate and merciful. They are good men, stronger than anyone would suspect, more wounded than they will ever allow anyone to see.

It takes each a while to accept the truth of the other, caution and past experience teaching them to trust no-one with everything, to question each assumption, to believe only with proof wherever that is possible. But it's not really a surprise to either when the truth comes out between them, when the hours of tension and arguments come down to one single moment, one shared expression, one mutual understanding. 

And even though neither thought it possible that they'd ever be so lucky again, love does follow. It follows as inevitably as night follows day, and the stilted, hesitant words that the child and the soldier barely dared give become cries in the darkness, desperate whispers in the night; the cautious, restrained touches become open and gentle and wanted and wanted and every desire they hide from the world, they find in each other.

Tony doesn't smile when they're alone, not the way he does for the cameras. There's a slight tilt to his mouth, a slight turn to his lips, but he doesn't smile. There isn't any need – when Tony Stark is a happy man, he's relaxed, not on duty. Steve loves the genuine smiles that cross his face when he solves a problem, when he makes something new, when Steve pays him a compliment, but he doesn't push for them, because he knows Tony's happiness isn't displayed through smiles. 

It comes through the sparkle in his eyes and the smoothness in his voice, the way he'll fall asleep with Steve by his side, at his back, curled up with him, anything. If he can sleep, he's happy. And it comes through the quiet that he lets descend on them both when there's nobody to put in their place, the whispers and murmurs they use when there's no need to shout, the laughter that's so soft it can barely be heard when there's no reason to make it any louder. If he can be still and quiet, he's happy.

Steve doesn't keep his spine straight and his shoulders back when they're together. He has a tendency to smile gently, the way Tony might do once in a blue moon, and he watches Tony as much as he can. He's an artist, he loves to observe, loves to memorise every detail because, when Steve Rogers is a happy man, he's at ease. Tony loves watching him be himself when there's nobody to command, when he lets himself live, when he lets himself be.

They curl up together on the couch, legs tangled and faces close, or they stand together in the kitchen, arms around each other with each others' warmth for comfort, or they sit by the fire side by side, bodies crossed and cradled, or they go to bed, hands held tight and voices low and rough. 

Their defence is simple; behave as though interaction is unwanted. For the majority of the time, it's not a lie. Steve doesn't want to be touched by people passing by, Tony doesn't want to be suddenly kissed by someone he doesn't know, Steve doesn't want to be in the middle of a screaming crowd, Tony doesn't want to be photographed again, no matter how many touches and kisses and screams and photographs they both allow. It's unwanted, they're not afraid to show that.

But they are both so tactile that they ache for each other, that their hands itch and their heads ache and maybe, Tony says, maybe it's all in their minds. Maybe they just love each other too much and that's why they can't stop touching and stroking and petting and holding and pressing skin to skin. But they can't stop touching, it's like something's wrong when they're not touching, as though the world isn't right until they're as close to each other as they can get and it's not fair, Steve says, that there's only so close they can get – Steve hates the cold, hates remembering the ice and sometimes, he says, he knows that if he could just sink into Tony's body and disappear, just for a while, then...

Why would he need anything else? 

And Tony says that he knows, he understands, he feels the same, winding his fingers in Steve's hair to hold him close as Steve's hands slide the length of Tony's spine.

So they brush hands at breakfast, exchange a glance over the conference table, send a message in the afternoon, order dinner and eat it by the fire with their shoulders touching and, when night falls, they hold each other close, as close as they can, and breathe each others' air, listen to each others' heartbeats, cheek to cheek, chest to chest, hip to hip, legs tangled with their arms around each other and they rest or think or smile or sleep or make love and they're safe together, they're in love together, they can be themselves, their true selves, together.

And that's why they work so well. 

Because you wouldn't know it to look at the loud, brash hedonist and the authoritative soldier – because they live their lives so that no one will – but the times they are truly happy are those times when they are quiet, and gentle, and alone.

Together.


End file.
